Finneran's Wake

“Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good-fortune. Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms. Strong and content, I travel the open road”. Might we, having now seen the “long brown path” before us, and nodded “yes” to its meanders---to the many bends along which our intrepid feet amble---join you on so enticing a walk? Might we, having now pressed our soles to the leaf-strewn soil, and felt the supple spring of the grass atop which the morning dew lingers, accompany a spirit so unencumbered, strong, and free? Let us gather, then, in singing our songs of the open road—our songs of boldness, liberty, resilience, and life. Let us gather, one and all, and travel this open road—marching, as we do, to the tuneful rhythm of a fearless spirit, and a happy heart.

“A nihilist—that’s from the Latin "nihil", nothing, so far as I can judge. Therefore, the word denotes a man who doesn’t recognize anything?” Sadly, it does. The word’s etymology, should you be so fearless as to trace it to its root, shan’t lead you astray. It will, however, lead you to dark, morbid, and unnatural places, to a chthonic world out of which you’ll not easily climb. It’ll lead you to a realm emptied of meaning, and an existence stripped of life. The materialist, utilitarian, unpoetic, brooding Bazarov will welcome you to this ghastly terrain.

When you return, as I hope you do, I’ll offer you my warmest Father’s Day wishes.

“To the music of his strings he sang, and all the bloodless spirits wept to hear; and Tantalus forgot the fleeing water, Ixion’s wheel was tranced; Sisyphus sat rapt upon his stone and the Furies’ cheeks, it’s said, were wet with tears; And Hades’ queen and He whose scepter rules the Underworld could not deny the prayer, and called Eurydice.” Such is the power of Orpheus’ melodious persuasion. With lyre in hand, and a song in his heart, the troubled troubadour is able to convince his every listener—inanimate or divine—with an eloquence by which not only god and Titan, but vegetable and stone were suddenly arrested, or magically moved. Here, at the outset of the tenth book of Ovid’s Metamorphoses, we follow the musical genius down into the depths of the chthonic beyond. To our great pleasure, a multitude of myths will greet us along the way.

“The days began to fly now, and yet each one of them was stretched by renewed expectations and swollen with silent, private experiences. Yes, time is a puzzling thing, there is something about it that is hard to explain”. It’s positively bewildering. Indeed, the difficulty in explaining it is only increased as one reaches the heights of the Magic Mountain, that strange Alpine crag in which the famed sanatorium is nestled, and the confederacy of the tubercular confined. There, so many miles above the unexalted flatlands of the continent below, and so far beyond the stunted reach of our human imagination, the “temporal” becomes inexplicable, and the time becomes something unreal. Its smallest unit of measurement, after all, is neither the minute, the hour, nor the day, but the month. Yes—atop the Magic Mountain, time is a puzzling thing.

“The earth is all before me: with a heart joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about, and should the guide I choose be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way”. Let us mount that wayward nimbus, upon whose broad back we leap to climb, if only to seek the sunrise of a fresh and glorious day. Let us follow that venturesome spirit, by which, in heat, the verdant land is shaded, and, in solitude, the quiet empyrean conveyed. This much we know—we shall not be led astray. We shall not find ourselves on paths unprofitable down which the aimless stumble. One simply cannot err when light of trouble, and heavy with bliss.

“I welcome truth, I fondle it, in whosesoever hand I find it; I surrender to it cheerfully, welcoming it with my vanquished arms as soon as I see it approaching from afar”. With the exception of love, and perhaps beauty, truth is the only power to which, once beaten, we can’t but gladly submit. We smile as we bow our heads in its royal presence, and cheer the conquest of its arrival. It’s the supreme force, greater than any other, before which we unhesitatingly genuflect, and to which we happily commit our lightsome fate. Truth, steady in its march toward us from the dusky haze of the horizon, is but one consequence of good, earnest, and lucid conversation. This, I think, is conversation’s art, and its end.

“To my taste, the most fruitful and most natural exercise of our minds is conversation. I find the practice of it the most delightful activity in our lives. In their academies, the Athenians, and even more the Romans, maintained this exercise in great honor”. In our own times, however, we’ve all but forgotten this delightful art—this melodious exchange of ideas, and interplay of opinions, in which classical tongues were so fluent. We no longer feel the spark by which it once tickled our nerves, nor the heat with which it once warmed our lagging spirits. It was, once, the activity from which our minds—ever inquisitive, daring, and new—derived their greatest pleasure. Now, sadly, conversation is held in but small esteem. We retain, at this point, not even its vestige. Perhaps, in this desperate state, Montaigne can restore conversation to its Grecian glory or, failing that, its Roman strength.

‘The Europeans,’ answered Imlac, ‘are less unhappy than we, but they are not happy. Human life is everywhere a state in which much is to be endured, and little to be enjoyed’. Alas, is this not the divine punishment for our original transgression?—the terrible consequence of our old, Edenic sin? Were our first parents not warned against tasting of the fruit with which that tempting tree was laden? Were they not then told, having eaten it, and having satisfied both hunger and curiosity in a single bite, to expect sorrow, pain, and a joyless life of toil? That much is to be endured, and little enjoyed, thus strikes us as no revelation. Still, we delight in Samuel Johnson embellishing this ancient theme. Let us follow the wisdom of Imlac, Johnson’s brilliant creation, as he guides us toward understanding, happiness, poetry, and love.

“Every profound thinker is more afraid of being understood than of being misunderstood. The latter may perhaps wound his vanity; but the former will wound his heart”. For those of us still engaged in the grand, century-old philosophical autopsy of Friedrich Nietzsche, an inexhaustible examination for which, truly, the pathologist is as much needed as the psychologist and the priest, we can’t but notice the full and unscathed shape of his heart. Press your ear to this vital organ, and listen to its deathless beat. Neither during his lifetime, nor thereafter, was it ever at risk of being wounded; no mind proved itself sufficiently sharp. Never did it face the threat of injury by which less inscrutable hearts—hearts like ours—are made to suffer.

“Be like them! Become mediocre!”—is henceforth the only morality that has any meaning left, that still finds ears to hear it. But it is difficult to preach, this morality of mediocrity!” Difficult to preach, yes, but also difficult to swallow. And he who tastes this bitter pill can’t but cough, and, after having cleared his throat, ask with shallow breath the following: Is there no stronger morality by which one’s enfeebled self might be affirmed? Is there no higher standard to which one’s sinking spirit might aspire? Perhaps there is. Perhaps these are the musings of a “master”, of a nobleman whose morality is ultimately his own.